Moving On
by thesecondshelf
Summary: The Weasley children move on after The Battle of Hogwarts.  A series of vignettes told in the second person.  Canon Pairings.


**_.six._**

Harry is already in (what would have been) his four-poster bed when you reach him.

The curtains are open and he is lying on his back, nearly hanging off the right side of the bed so the rest was completely open and somehow you know that he left the space because he doesn't want to be alone.

You look down at the witch beside you, covered in dirt and grime and blood, some of hers and some of friends and some of foes and you squeeze her hand even tighter. She sighs, and she pulls her hand from yours and Hermione crawls into bed with your best friend, curling up against his left side and sliding her right arm under his pillow and placing her left hand on his chest, and you know she is just making sure that his heart really is still beating.

She looks back at you nervously, as if she worries that you won't understand but you do and you sigh as she did and you crawl into the space that she's left on her other side. You press your body as close to hers as it's ever been and you mimic her position. Your left arm curls around her waist and your right arm is under the pillow with hers, and you hold her hand again on the other side of Harry's weary head and you bury your face in Hermione's glorious hair.

And you wonder if you should have stayed with your family, your family that is now smaller than it was this morning, but your body is touching Hermione's and Harry's chest is rising and falling as he breathes and you know that you are right where you are supposed to be at this moment.

You think, briefly, that you should feel weird bout sharing a single four-poster bed with your two best friends at the age of 18 but you don't, for you know that you can't bear to be any further away from either of them at this point in time. You think that you probably shouldn't even fit in this small of a space, but you are all far too thin now and even if you weren't, it is almost like you are really just one person, three parts of a whole that earlier today you feared for several awful minutes had been irrevocably shattered, never to be whole again.

And then, as if you really are just one person with one train of thought your best friends speaks.

"I'm sorry for not saying goodbye, before I went to the forest to..." the rest of his apology dies on his lips.

"You should be," you mumble. "You're lucky we didn't kill you when you came back to life." At your words, Hermione half laughs and half sobs and she pulls the three of you even closer together.

"I was hoping you'd consider it a payment of debt... you know, for all those times I almost got the two of you killed."

"Are you mad? You die once and you think that makes up for the past seven years? Not even close. You still owe us, Potter," you joke, because joking is easier.

"Of course," the boy chuckles, his green eyes still closed. "Remind me tomorrow. I'll buy you a Quidditch team, and Hermione a library."

"Two Quidditch teams," you insist.

"And three libraries," Hermione adds.

"Deal," he says, and his breathing is suddenly heavier and you know he's asleep.

You can hear his heart thudding in the silent room, and you can feel the heat of her body as it nestles so close to your own and sleep comes easier than you thought it would. Your one last thought before you cease to think for a very long time is that if you can sleep this close to her, just for a little while, everything was worth it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>.seven.<em>**

He is much more affectionate after the war. Not only with you, but with everyone else as well.

You watch as Harry hugs your mother randomly after breakfast one morning, and he must have whispered something to her because they both stand there and she cries for a moment before they let go of each other. You continue to stare as he walks past you, brushing a hand up and down your arm before exiting the room and you shiver and you wonder if he knows what his touch does to you. But then you think of the late nights in your room when your parents are sleeping and you smile, for you know that he does.

Your brother is different too, much different than the last time you saw him. He ruffles your hair like he used to when you were both small and he doesn't glare when he finds Hermione sleeping on the couch with her head in Harry's lap and he lets Harry leave his room in the middle of the night to head to yours (although you suspect that it's because if Harry's not there he gets more alone time with Hermione).

Hermione, you think, is probably the most different of all. She laughs louder, and smiles wider, and her body is covered in more scars than everyone else's combined but you've never seen her look more beautiful. One day you ask her if she's started her summer assignments and she looks at you as if you'd grown an extra head and she tells you that she has plenty of time to worry about things like that, and suggests that you all go for a swim instead. She and the boys are running up the stairs to change into swim clothes faster than you can say _accio_, and you're stunned for a moment but you follow them, because you realize she's right.

You have time.

You all have time, time you've never had, thanks to the three of them.

And when you finally reach the pond in the backyard, several meters behind them, Ron has forcibly thrown Harry into the water and he wraps his arms around your middle because you're next and you realize why Harry can't seem to keep his hands to himself. Because when your older brother tosses you as if you were a rag doll and not a nearly-grown woman and you are flying or falling or some combination of the two, you worry for a moment that Ron's not really there because you can't feel him and your eyes are closed so you can't see him either.

But then you hit the water, and it's Harry's hands that grab your sides and you feel something very, very different than you had a moment ago but somehow it's the same, because when you can feel him you know that he's real, and that despite all you've all been through, he came back to you.

And you know that this time with the ones you love is all you've ever wanted, it's what you fought for and what your brother died for, and you promise yourself as you surface and gasp for air that you will never, ever let anyone leave you behind ever again.

* * *

><p><strong><em>.five.<em>**

You hear them, when they awaken in the middle of the night. You hear everything now, which is kind of strange considering you only have one ear but it's true.

Sometimes you hear them and you smile, because you know that Harry and Hermione are passing each other on the stairs and you can picture them grinning, both shyly and conspiratorially, as they trade bedrooms to spend a little private time with their Weasley of choice.

Then there nights like this one, when you know all four of them are in your sister's room across the hall from yours because you heard Hermione's screams, and you know she's having a nightmare again. You usually roll over and try to sleep, confident that the four of them can handle anything, but tonight something feels different and you rise from your bed and you make your way across the hall. You enter without knocking and they're shocked when they see you but you ignore them and you sit next to Harry on the end of your little sister's bed.

"What happened to Hermione?" you ask Harry for the first time. You ask Harry, not your siblings, because you know he feels guilty and you know that he'll tell you because he thinks he owes you something because of what you've lost. He doesn't owe you anything, and you'll remind him of that later, but right now you're selfish and you use his guilt to your advantage.

And you regret it afterwards, because you can't unhear those words or unsee those images, and you can't help it as your eyes travel over her body and you flinch at the scars.

You should probably look away but you don't, you watch as your youngest brother cradles and comforts the girl he used to complain about for hours on end. And when you finally do glance to your side you see your sister, the baby, with her head on the shoulder of the young man she squeaked at and ran from the first time he entered your house.

And a million jokes run through your head.

Jokes, of all things. You don't say them, of course, because now is not the time, but you smile, relieved that the jokes are still there and you remind yourself to tease them all about something in the morning.

You thank Harry for telling you the truth, and you look down at his hand on your little sister's thigh and you raise your eyebrows in a way only a big brother can. He jerks it away and he looks scared for a moment and then he looks sheepish. And you smile wider than you have since you lost your other half, and Ginny hits you on the arm and defiantly puts Harry's hand back on her leg. When Harry looks back and forth between you and your sister, as if he isn't sure which Weasley he should be more frightened of, you burst out laughing.

Now it's Ron's turn to glare, cause you've clearly interrupted his moment as the knight in shining armor but you don't care, because you haven't laughed since the last time your twin did. You leave the room then, knowing that you've irreparably spoiled the mood for both couples, and when your head hits your pillow you speak two words you know will make Fred proud.

"Mischief Managed."

* * *

><p><strong><em>.one.<em>**

You have been back at Shell Cottage for a week now, and you've barely slept a wink. You stare at the cup of tea in front of you that has long gone cold and you think about reaching for a sleeping potion or for a glass of Firewhiskey, but you do neither.

You hear her come down the stairs but you don't look up. You are glad for your wife's company when she sits next to you and places her beautiful head on your shoulder and a delicate hand on your scarred cheek. She whispers to you in her native tongue, and you know she's asked you if you want to talk about it but you're not sure what to say.

"It's quiet," you mumble, finally.

"Oui," she says, then "très."

"Too quiet," you continue. "Too quiet to sleep," and you know that she knows you are thinking about all those months that this small space was a safe house for those who needed to be saved, and all those nights you spent wandering the halls checking on Order members and your little brother, and later the wandmaker and the goblin and your brother's friends. And you remember all the camp beds with their squeaky springs, and all of the nightmares and the footsteps up and down the stairs, and you know she remembers them too.

"Do you want to leave?" she asks, in English this time. "We could go to Egypt, or to France."

"No," you answer, immediately, and you know that this place has become your home, even if it is too quiet now.

"Well... there are ways then, to make a home less quiet," she whispers, and your eyes meet hers in an instant, blue on blue, you wonder if she could possibly be suggesting what you think she's suggesting.

"You mean..." you whisper, and you know she does because her eyes are wet and worried, as if she doesn't know that she has just agreed to all you've ever dreamed of.

"If you want," she says, breathless, "I know we 'ave not spoken much, about starting a family, but now that-" but she doesn't get to finish, for you are holding her perfect face in your calloused hands and you are kissing her and you can't remember ever feeling so alive.

And soon you are carrying her back up the stairs and she is giggling and you know you will not sleep tonight either, but tonight it will be by choice.

* * *

><p><strong><em>.three.<em>**

You wonder, not for the first time, if you're really welcome here. Of course this is your home, or it was at some point, and these people are your family, but after all that you've put them through you almost expect them to throw you out at any moment.

You would throw you out, after all.

So you sit a little further away than the rest of them do, and you leave the dinner table a little sooner, and you wander out into the backyard and sit on the grass and you think of your siblings in the kitchen and the one that's in the ground and you try not to cry and you think about leaving. Before you can think of somewhere to go, though, your youngest brother is sitting next to you and you wish he would just sit just a few centimeters further away because he is so close that you are sure he can read your thoughts.

"They want you to stay, you know," he says, and then you are sure he has somehow learned legilimency in the years you have been away.

"I don't think so," you answer, and you hate yourself for it.

"When are you going to forgive yourself, Perce?"

"Never," you say, and you mean it.

"Well, that's a shame, because we forgave you the moment you came back and we're a little tired of waiting," he responds, and you wonder who this young man is and what he did with your little brother. He's silent for awhile, and you know he is waiting for you to answer him but you aren't going to. "Percy, look at me," Ron says finally, and for some reason you do it. "I get it. I get why you did it, and I've done it too, sort of, but we've both figured it out now and everything's going to be ok, if you want it to be." You stare back at him and you say the only word that's come to mind.

"What?" And he has the nerve to laugh at you.

"You left because you wanted to be someone, and when you realized that you were someone all along, you came back. The coming back is the important part. Someone really wise taught me that," he says, as he plays with that weird light contraption that he never lets out of his sight.

"Ok," you say, but you don't quite know if you mean _it is ok_ or _maybe it will be_. Ron is standing now, and he holds out a hand to you and you take it, and he lifts you off the damp grass and puts an arm around your shoulder and leads you back into the house and for once, you're glad that he stays close.

* * *

><p><strong><em>.two.<em>**

It's time for you to leave, your head knows that, but your heart can't seem to pull itself away. So you sit on the sofa in the home you grew up in and you stare at the fire, and you pretend that the fire isn't caused by coals but by the hot breath of the creatures you miss more than you'd like to admit.

You barely notice when your father sits next to you.

"You can go back, you know," he says, and you wonder if you're really that obvious.

"Are you sure?" you ask him.

"Of course. Fred..." he starts, and his breath catches as yours does when you speak his name, "well, he wouldn't want you to give up doing what you love on his account."

"You're probably right," you say, still staring at the fire.

"I usually am," he says, and then "except when your mother disagrees with me. Then I'm always wrong." You look up then, surprised at the joke, but then you remember that your father was a Weasley before the rest of you were and you're not that surprised at all.

"Ginny's birthday is next week," you hear yourself saying, "I'll leave after that. It'll be nice to celebrate her 17th."

"Yes, that would be nice," your father says, "her 17th birthday. I can't believe it."

"Neither can I," you admit, and you can't help but remember little Ginny smiling and cakes with far fewer candles on them.

Your dad claps you on the shoulder and leaves you to your thoughts, but the living room isn't quiet for long. Soon you are interrupted by your two youngest siblings (who are not very young anymore) and their significant others, returning from their trip to Diagon Alley. They all come out of the fireplace, one after another. The girls are first, breathless from laughter, and they wave at you as they head up the stairs. The boys are next, arms laden with packages that you are sure do not belong to them.

"Women," Ron mutters, and you smile. You rise from your seat on the couch and give them a hand carrying the bags up to Ginny's room, and you realize you have never been more proud of your family than you are in this very ordinary moment.

The dragons can wait.

* * *

><p><strong><em>.four.<em>**

They're getting there, you think, and you watch them as closely as a dead man can.

They only cry sometimes and they only scream at night, which is more than you'd hoped for. They were overly attached to you, and with good reason; you were perfect, after all, and you still are.

Well, as perfect as a dead man can be.

Things are strange now, because you are and you're not, you see but you don't, you feel but you can't and you wonder if you'll ever get used to it. They've told you, the others, not to meddle with those who still walk the Earth, and you've listened so far but you know it's only a matter of time until you slip.

You were never much for following the rules, after all.

You won't be too obnoxious, because you don't want them to look for you in places you aren't but you want them to know that you are within them always. The others tell you that they know that already but you're Fred Weasley and you've never been much for unsaid truths or subtleties. So you bide your time, waiting for the right moment to let them know that you're all right and that they are too.

And when your little sister becomes of age, you find it.

It was just a little flame that you managed to conjure from beyond the veil, nothing that could do too much damage. Of course, you couldn't possibly have known that there was a box of fireworks in that pile of rubbish in the Burrow's backyard. You certainly didn't put it there, months ago, when you helped your parents and your sister move to Great Aunt Muriel's. No, they could not blame this on you in the slightest. You're nothing but a dead man, after all.

And even if you did know there were fireworks hiding under all those discarded pieces of cardboard, you certainly didn't mean to put that little flame so close to them. That would have been meddlesome, and you had been warned that you were not allowed to meddle in the affairs of the living.

At least, that's what you'll say when you're questioned about the best and biggest fireworks show that Ottery St. Catchpole has ever seen.

The lights flash and sounds echo and your loved ones pour out of the kitchen and into the backyard, and you know in an instant that it was all worth it. They laugh and they cry as they stare at the sky, and they know it was you because it had to be, and you haven't felt so warm since you left your body behind. Ginny thanks you as she dances under the sparks and George congratulates you on a job well done and you could swear your mother is threatening to kill you for ruining her garden, but their voices are fading fast and soon enough they are gone.

And even though you can't quite see or hear them anymore, you know that it was worth it. You know now that they are moving on, so you can too.


End file.
